


a sprawl of limbs and lace

by brightlyburning



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Body Worship, Bottom Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd, Creampie, Dom/sub, Feminization, Humiliation, Lingerie, Multi, Praise Kink, Roleplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-15 19:14:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29813118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brightlyburning/pseuds/brightlyburning
Summary: Byleth slinks up the bed like a great beast to slide her gloved hand over Dimitri’s parted lips. Then, she knots her fingers into his hair, pulls his head up - he makes a little vulnerable sound Sylvain wants to devour - and slides in behind him, laying his head into her lap and smoothing his hair back.He gazes at her with utter adoration.“Well, Sylvain,” she says, one finger looped beneath Dimitri’s collar, the other stroking his jaw, “let’s get started.”(For Bottomitri Weekend, prompts lingerie, multiple partners, comeplay, lingerie, praise kink, humiliation, and dom/sub.)
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Sylvain Jose Gautier/My Unit | Byleth
Comments: 5
Kudos: 65
Collections: Bottomitri Weekend





	a sprawl of limbs and lace

Byleth sits cross-legged on the bed, one elbow on her knee and chin on her fist, loose and lazy with the hour, the wine. She's surrounded by the books Sylvain's scrounged up, a few tossed aside in frustration, the rest dog-eared and bookmarked.

"So Dimitri wants me to... ravish him?" She looks up from the latest book she's perusing, her brow furrowed. "Like in these books."

Sylvain lowers his copy of ' _The Rogue and the Maiden_ ' and stretches out of his too-comfortable armchair to snatch his own cup of wine. "Yeah. Tell him he's sweet and pretty, treat him like he's a little helpless, maybe talk a bit dirty."

Byleth cocks her head at him. Her voice is solemn. "But he _is_ sweet."

Their king is exceptionally so, but it doesn't help the fact that most people see him as a warrior, terrifying and conquering, awful in his power. Hence his confession last night, loose-limbed, the three of them sprawled before the fire in his chambers, relaxed and a little silly with drink.

"He is," Sylvain agrees. "But he wants to _feel_ pretty and small and sweet, and the lingerie and you being a little pushy will help. Besides, you know how he is with dirty talk."

Byleth blushes. The muscles in her shoulders tighten. "Yes."

"Show me your best line." Sylvain's forever delighted by her, her bluntness, her passion, how dedicated she is to Dimitri. "You must have some good ones."

Byleth thinks, then straightens. Her voice turns gruff, a bit deep. "Bring that sopping gash over here and let me fuck it 'til you can't walk straight."

Sylvain blinks. Lets the words roll over him. Well. He doesn't know what he was expecting. This is the mercenary queen who, at every single formal dinner she's forced to sit through, looks about two seconds away from tossing the antique silverware aside and upending the plates straight into her own mouth.

"Not good?"

"I think," Sylvain says, careful, "if you were going to be a pirate-" and oh, that's a good one, he could see himself enjoying her gruff voice, her insistent touches, "-it'd be appropriate. Dimitri, though... probably leave that one alone."

"Understood," she says, as serious as on a battlefield, and Sylvain's heart kicks in his chest. She needs all the help she can get, and Dimitri, too; Goddess knows how hard it must have been for his king to confess any want for himself, and certainly one so intimate. The idea of this going wrong between them sours on his tongue.

"How about this: I'll help you out with the lingerie part of this, you keep reading those books so you can get some better lines?"

The way her studious face lights up has Sylvain's heart threatening a full-on stampede, and oh, no, he's _so_ fucked.

* * *

"Do you think he knows?" Byleth asks from beside Sylvain. She doesn't pull her gaze away from the various scraps of ribbon and lace and silk they've laid out across Sylvain's bed.

Sylvain reaches out to pick up the white Enbarr lace and lay it atop the dark blue Almyran silk. "I think he knows you're planning something, if not what it is." Hard for Dimitri not to pick up on it, when Byleth keeps using their time together to ask him to close his eye and feel random fabrics. Fabrics she then brings to Sylvain with detailed reports: ' _he scrunched his nose at the crocheted lace, but he favored the Enbarr._ '

Byleth cocks her head. “Is the contrast of the colors more important, or the textures?" She reaches out to pluck a strip of white pile-on-pile velvet, then runs it through her fingers. "Because this is so soft, perhaps a collar? It'd contrast well with the blue silk. But then if we're aiming for him to feel soft and sweet and pretty, maybe all white?"

Oh. _Oh_. Sylvain can hardly breathe, imagining it: the lush rose of Dimitri's cock and nipples, framed in white; the dark gold of his hair; how he'd glow, luminous, in the candlelight.

Byleth, beside him, smiles, slow and smug. "I thought so. Also, we need to come up with our story."

Sylvain almost sprains his neck whipping around to stare at her. "Er. You want me there?" He hadn't even dared to hope; it seemed enough that they allowed him to spend time in their suite, sharing wine and stories, and when Byleth leaned on him or Dimitri's hand lingered on his shoulder, well, they were just being friendly.

Byleth's brows knit. "Sylvain," she says, and abruptly he feels all of nineteen again, having made some stupid remark in class. "Dimitri and I have been trying to get you in our bed for _weeks_ , of course I want you there. Besides, it would be terrible of me to involve you in all this-" her wave encompasses the bed, the lace, the ribbon, the crumpled pile of silk stockings they've tossed aside, "-and not let you participate." She flushes. "And I've realized that my filthy talk leaves much to be desired, so I think your help would not go amiss. As long as you think it won't be too strange, treating your king like a maiden?"

Sylvain swallows. "I mean, it's going to be strange, no matter what. He's always been my monarch." The ground shifts beneath his feet at the thought, the daring impertinence of it: viewing his king's mouth, stern and commanding, as something to be kissed; the breadth of his shoulders as a place for his hands to rest and squeeze; the vicious power of his thighs settling about Sylvain's waist. "I can do it, though. I want to, if you both want to."

Byleth reaches out, takes his hand in hers, small and work-worn. She studies him, pale gaze looking deep into him, then nods, as if satisfied with whatever she's seen. "Good. I'll help keep Dimitri relaxed for you."

Sylvain bites back a moan at the idea, the image. Dimitri trusts Byleth utterly, without reserve and without thought; he follows her directions to the letter, secure that things will work out as they always have as long as she's there. Would he lay his head in her lap, breathe out his little gasps and whimpers against the bare flesh of her stomach or thighs as Sylvain coaxes him to spread his thighs-

Time to stop thinking about that.

"Now. Our story," Byleth says, brisk. She drops his hand and pulls a scuffed leather notebook out of her pocket, flipping it open to a page where she's scribbled... something, and scans it, humming a tuneless little sound.

Sylvain can just make out a few lines in her book, even upside down. 

_'Fiery culmination = dragons? Orgasm? Investigate further.'_   
_'Punishing kisses???'_   
_'’That rigid part of him.’ Which part? He is rigid most places.'_

Then, in large letters in black pencil,

_'Danger = arousal.'_

Byleth snaps the book shut, then pins Sylvain in place with her stare. 

"The books are quite formulaic. As the romantic partners, we need to seem accessible, yet with an edge of danger. Most of the stories have heroes who work in some martial form, but chivalric knights are not dangerous enough for our purposes."

Should he be taking notes? Oh, Goddess, he should be taking notes.

"Knights errant are popular," Byleth continues, warming to her topic, and Sylvain can't bring himself to tell her that knights errant, as far as he knows, never existed outside of literature. "They come from parts unknown, and they often fight monsters. For some reason they often have magical weapons, which we've already secured." 

The Lance of Ruin. No.

"However, Dimitri would never allow Areadbhar to be profaned in such a way. Other options include thieves waylaying a passing carriage with a virtuous maiden inside, but this will not do for us."

"...because?" Sylvain manages weakly. He's still stuck on the idea of using the Lance of Ruin for this.

"The lingerie will be white," Byleth says, disapproving. "It would get filthy. Also we would need someone to drive the carriage. Therefore, we must be mercenaries who are escorting a virtuous maiden to her future husband and decide to show her a night of-" she consults her notebook, "'unbridled restless passion and desire' before marriage."

Sylvain absorbs this in silence. Well. He owns some rougher clothing, remnants of the war, and hopefully he can convince Byleth to cut the future husband part of the storyline.

"Okay. Let's do it."

Byleth, her smile heartbreaking in its brilliance, drops her book and throws her arms about him, muttering a "Thank you" against his chest.

* * *

Sylvain finishes buttoning up his shirt in the washroom, then meets his own disbelieving gaze in the mirror. He hasn't shaved, per Byleth's instructions - for someone as focused on warfare as she, Byleth has an image she demands for this play - and has put on his most worn clothes. Even the gloves resting on the armoire are aged, soft with use and not the fineness of their material. 

A knock at the door.

"Come in."

Byleth opens the door, then looks him up and down while he pulls on his gloves. She's dressed in a leather jerkin - Sylvain had been forced to talk her out of trying her full gear in the royal bed - over a loose shirt, then leather leggings. Her black calfskin gloves shine in the dim light. A mercenary captain reborn, ill-fitting this fancy bathroom with its copper fixtures and its polished tile.

"You look good," she says, and is that a blush on her ears? Honestly, cute.

"So do you. Very, uh-" he waves a hand to encompass her, "-threatening. In a good way." 

"I've got everything ready." She leads him into the bedroom, where a few lanterns burn with amber glow, the enormous bed waiting with its white sheets turned down. A fire crackles merrily in the grate. At the end of the bed, she's laid out the lingerie, and Sylvain hardly feels able to touch it, it's so delicate and lovely: flowers stitched into the lace, the white silk shimmering like liquid in the light.

Byleth, contemplating the lingerie at his side, swings about abruptly to stare up at Sylvain, gaze narrow, intense as a blade.

"Before he comes in," she says, forceful, "three things."

Sylvain, who'd almost stepped back at the suddenness of her motion, blinks, then nods.

"Remember our plan. No titles. No cruelty. Stop if he says so." She says this as if it's holy law, as if she'd strike his head from his shoulders if he forgets. 

"Got it."

Her expression softens, and her voice is warm when she finishes, taking his hand in hers, "And also, thank you, truly, for your kindness to both myself and Dimitri. This would not have been possible without your assistance, and I-" she trails off, brow furrowing, then reaches up, her strong hand curling about the back of his neck.

He bends at her urging, breath stuttering in his lungs, to brush his mouth across hers. She rocks up onto her toes, presses closer, and this near she smells of weapons oil, tea, an indefinable inhuman energy, but her lips - chapped and warm - are nothing but human. 

Goddess, if the Sylvain who'd started at Garreg Mach could see him now.

She's a gentle kisser, her mouth whispering across his, but her hand where it wraps over the nape of his neck curls against him with unmistakable strength. With a last flick of her tongue against the seam of his lips, she pulls away, loosens her grip, and opens her eyes.

"Thank you for agreeing to try this with us," she says, and Sylvain can only blink dumbly, fixed on her kiss-swollen mouth.

"Yeah," he manages at last. "Any time."

Another knock at the door, and they turn to find Dimitri craning his head into the room. His gaze gleams with satisfaction to find them both there, a shy smile tugging at his mouth, and how anyone could find him frightening these days Sylvain has no idea.

"Good evening," Dimitri says, coming around the door to join them. He's in his formal clothes, the privy council having met earlier. His jacket is unbuttoned, the laces at his throat loosened, and there's something intimate, even now, about seeing his king dressed down. "Are you-" his gaze falls on the lingerie in its shimmering finery, and his mouth clicks shut. A blush spreads across his nose, and he swallows, steps closer, a strange timidity to the motion.

Sylvain wavers. Have they started? Should he take Dimitri's hand, ease him closer into their space? Or should they let Dimitri come in his own time, building the tension with each step?

Byleth solves it, as she so often does. She strides into Dimitri's space, slides her hands up beneath his jacket, and works it off his arms with efficient motions. This must be routine, for Dimitri moves with her, sliding himself out to leave himself only in his thin linen shirtsleeves, pale hair appearing in the gap of cloth at his throat.

"It's for you," Byleth says, shaking out the jacket and placing it on a hanger. "As are we tonight."

Dimitri bites his lower lip, the flesh swelling red when he lets go, and his gaze darts to Sylvain. "I appreciate your presence," he starts, "more than I can say. That you have done this for me, it is a gift I do not deserve."

"None of that," Sylvain says. "You deserve everything, and I'm happy to help give you it."

"Even so," Dimitri says, and then jumps when Byleth, coming around his side, flicks her fingers at his shoulder. 

"Even so," she repeats, jaw firm, eyes narrow, and yes, Dimitri concedes with a small sound and a rueful smile. His shoulders loosen, dropping into something approaching ease, and Byleth catches Sylvain's eyes and jerks her chin at the lingerie. 

"Close your eye, beloved, and keep it closed," Byleth says, and Dimitri, with heartbreakingly perfect trust, does so. His brow furrows when Sylvain moves, carrying the various pieces of lingerie with him, but relaxes again when Sylvain says, low,

"Just me." He bites back the 'your majesty,' and Byleth nods at him, approving. Right. In here, Dimitri will feel like no warrior or king, but someone soft and receptive and utterly deserving of whatever luxuries they can lavish on him.

Speaking of which-

Byleth finishes undressing Dimitri's top half, placing the linen shirt aside for the washerwomen, and cocks her head at Sylvain, who passes her the velvet collar and Enbarr lace bra. His fingertips already miss the sensation. She reaches up, tilts Dimitri's chin, and with steady hands settles the collar about the strong line of his neck: white velvet, trimmed with seed pearls, held together by a loose knot at the hollow of his throat. Dimitri needs no harsh buckles or clips here.

Dimitri breathes out a long sigh, and some more of the tension eases from his shoulders.

Sylvain, for his part, hefts the waist-cincher: panels of cream leather, separated by boning, with golden busk eyes and hooks at the front and loose lacing at the back. While he undoes the busk, he catches Byleth's eye, mouths, "Kiss him."

She nods, serious as ever but for the pink on her cheeks, and reaches up to loop her finger beneath Dimitri's lovely collar and tug him down into a slow, claiming kiss. While they kiss, Byleth's small strong hand pushing into Dimitri's hair to angle his head for her, Sylvain sinks to one knee to wrap the waist cincher about Dimitri's taut abdomen. The cream leather looks beautiful against him, the warm tones bringing out the flush of arousal in his skin, and it hugs him wonderfully, the edges of the cincher pressing against the juts of his hipbones: surprisingly fragile-looking on such a man.

Dimitri makes an inquiring noise against Byleth's mouth from where they're kissing above Sylvain, a breath of a sound. Hard to believe the king of the continent could sound so yielding, and Sylvain fears there's too much affection in his voice when he says, doing up the golden clasps,

"Just a waist cincher, Dimitri, to make you look even more lovely."

Dimitri shivers, and makes another little sound as Sylvain settles the cincher in place, then circles him, trailing his callused hand over the soft thin skin on Dimitri's ribs to let him know where he is. The wet sound of their lips parting has Sylvain's cock twitching in his breeches.

"You are beautiful," Byleth informs Dimitri, informs the world, and Dimitri makes a tiny, yearning sound. He sways into their grips, breathing shallowing again as Sylvain starts to tighten the ribbon lacing at the back.

"Don't do that, sweet thing," Sylvain murmurs, and watches the full-body shiver roll across Dimitri's skin with unbridled delight. "I can't do this up right if you don't breathe." He's done up and undone many a corset in his time, and this isn't too much different; bottom to top, keeping even pressure, and as the cincher settles into place, makes Dimitri's already-obscene waist narrow even more, Sylvain can't swallow back the hungry sound.

"Sylvain," Dimitri says, and oh, his voice is already breathy, a bit dreamy, and Byleth, barely visible past his broad shoulders, blinks and looks a bit stunned with greed herself.

"Yes?" He finishes up the lacing and ties it in place with a perfect bow, passing his hand over the dip of the cincher to feel how it fits Dimitri perfectly, his hand trembling as he does. "What can I do for our lovely prize?"

"Kiss me," Dimitri says, and who is Sylvain to deny him?

He rises, dragging his hands up Dimitri's calves, his solid thighs, the narrow curve of his waist and the warm skin of his chest, to tilt his head up and study Dimitri's face. Still, trusting, almost serene, blood pulsing in the thin skin beneath his closed eye. His lips shine in the dim light, slightly parted, the bottom one bearing the imprint of teeth, inviting.

Well. No time like the present. Stubble rasps against his gloved fingers as he tilts Dimitri's chin down, then holds him still, leaning in and closing his eyes.

Dimitri hitches a breath, presses back, a small wanting sound unfurling into the scant space between their lips. His mouth slides hot and soft over Sylvain's, his pulse beating beneath Sylvain's fingertips, and then he makes another tinier sound, so vulnerable Sylvain has to open one eye.

Ah, there's Byleth, maneuvering her husband's loose limbs to slide the Enbarr lace bra onto him, and the sound, the sudden whimper, was because of the lace sliding over Dimitri's nipples. 

Goddess, that's hot.

Dimitri must sense his attention wandering, for he flicks his tongue out at Sylvain's lips, requests entrance Sylvain's only too happy to give. He'd expected Dimitri to be a shy kisser, reluctant to venture beyond lips on lips, but no; he claims Sylvain's mouth confidently, angles his head to press deeper, nips at his lower lip until Sylvain's almost rutting against his thigh, cock aching in his tight breeches.

This is how his king kisses. This is how Dimitri kisses, how he must kiss Byleth.

"Done," Byleth announces, and Sylvain pulls back to find Dimitri gazing at him. He looks good with Sylvain's gloved hand cradling his jaw, his mouth kiss-swollen and his eye dark with want, and then Sylvain's gaze flickers to Byleth, approaching with the panties and rolled-up stockings. 

"Let's get you out of those trousers," she says. "Sylvain, if you would?"

Dimitri smiles at him, half-bashful, half-wanting, and Sylvain wants to kiss him again, bite that full lower lip, chase the growing flush spreading onto his neck with his teeth.

"Of course," Sylvain says, voice rough, and the shiver that ripples across Dimitri's skin at the sound is beautiful. "We have to get our prize properly dressed, don't we?" He unbuttons Dimitri's trousers, then hooks his thumb beneath the waistband, into Dimitri's smalls.

His mind blanks for a moment at all that warm bare skin against his knuckles, the soft downy hair curling against his fingertips, the knowledge that his - Sylvain's - hands are this close to Dimitri's cock. His mouth waters. He tugs, and Dimitri, hand heavy on his shoulder, steps out of his puddled trousers.

Byleth, standing to their sides, meets Sylvain's ravenous gaze with a pleased little grin.

Dimitri’s hands shift over his cock, his face and chest heated red, but that’s all right, Sylvain had gotten a good glimpse: thick and hardening, the head flushed a lovely pink as it peeked shyly from the folds of foreskin. 

“Give him the panties,” Byleth says, handing them over to Sylvain, “while I roll the stockings.” The words are somehow coarse in her mouth, and Dimitri shivers as they hang in the air. Byleth notices with a sharp smile.

“Here you go, pretty,” Sylvain says, the words easy, instinctual - he’s said them so often - but given new weight by who he’s speaking to. 

Dimitri bites his lip as he pulls one hand away from his cock, fingers trembling as he tugs the little scrap of silk and satin from Sylvain’s hand, then blinks, glancing at Sylvain, who’s watching him with open lust, and Byleth, her gaze hot.

“You’re not going to turn away?” His voice shakes, and something dark and greedy in Sylvain sits up, takes intent notice.

“No,” Byleth says, definitive.

Dimitri licks his lips. His broad chest heaves beneath its delicate lace covering, the white contrasting the red blush. He glances between them like some cornered beast, then gives in, bending, muscles flexing, to step into the panties and pull them up.

“Lovely boy,” Byleth says, and he is. The lace and satin cup his full balls, the waistband tugging his half-hard cock up until the rosy head just appears over the edge, and Sylvain’s mouth itches to press kisses there, suckle at his shaft until it and the silk are sodden.

Dimitri hardly seems to know what to do with himself, fingertips stroking the silk, the satin, his gaze turned downward as if in awed contemplation of his body, fashioned anew into a source of pleasure. 

“Now,” and Byleth stalks towards Dimitri, hooks a finger beneath his collar, and tugs him towards the bed, “your stockings. We want our present nicely wrapped.” She pushes him, and he falls with utter trust, bouncing then hissing as the motion pulls at his bra, his sensitive little tits.

“Here, you do this one.” She presses a stocking into Sylvain’s hands, the fabric as light as air, and keeps the other for herself.

Dimitri’s foot twitches in Sylvain’s grip as he starts to roll the stocking over it, and oh, yeah. He’d forgotten Dimitri was ticklish, but the muffled noises from up the bed are more than enough reminder.

Byleth, diligently working on her side of the bed, laughs, and then, holding Dimitri’s wide-eyed gaze, lifts his stocking-clad foot to press a lingering kiss to the scarred top of it, now hidden by gauzy silk.

“Beloved,” Dimitri says, voice wobbly, almost squirming from embarrassment. “Sylvain.” Whatever he was going to say cuts off in a gasped inhale as they roll the stockings further up his strong legs in tandem, pale silk softening the angry red and silver gashes of scars. Then, at last, the lace bands, hugging his trembling thighs.

“There,” Sylvain says. “Our gorgeous prize.”

Dimitri gulps. 

Byleth slinks up the bed like a great beast to slide her gloved hand over Dimitri’s parted lips. Then, she knots her fingers into his hair, pulls his head up - he makes a little vulnerable sound Sylvain wants to devour - and slides in behind him, laying his head into her lap and smoothing his hair back.

He gazes at her with utter adoration.

“Well, Sylvain,” she says, one finger looped beneath Dimitri’s collar, the other stroking his jaw, “let’s get started.”

Not terribly sexy dirty talk, but that’s okay; they have all night for Sylvain to teach her.

Sylvain nudges Dimitri’s thighs apart with his knee, worn trousers rasping against the lacy stockings, and then rests his knee on the mattress, looming closer. He grins, baring teeth in naked hunger.

Dimitri, his head cradled in Byleth’s hands, his face flushed red and his eyes wide, shudders, breath shallowing, as Sylvain surveys him: the pale unmarred insides of his trembling thighs; the wild darkness of his eyes and the swollen ripeness of his mouth; and there, blushing pink beneath the white silk panels of his underwear, the tantalizing curve of his cock, lovely and thick and dripping precome, cloth molding itself to his skin. The darker head, shining and slick, peeks over the lace waistband, inviting, vulnerable.

“Aw, look at you,” Sylvain says, syrup-sweet and dark as honey, and Dimitri’s cheeks burn. “So beautiful for us, isn’t he, Byleth?” As he speaks, he draws his index finger up the inside of Dimitri’s thigh, pressing just to feel Dimitri push back. Seems he wants to play the skittish virgin still. “Pretty as you are, sweet thing, seems a shame you won’t let us see the beauty between your thighs.”

“Pretty enough up here,” Byleth says. One hand slides over his chest, finds the lace covering his nipple and drags it over that hard bud, and the shock of pleasure strings Dimitri tight and quivering against Sylvain’s hand. “His tits are just as good as his mouth.” The fingers of her other hand flirt with Dimitri’s lips, bitten red, and Dimitri draws them in with a grateful sound, lips pursing about her gloved knuckles.

Sylvain nods at Byleth, who pinkens at the ears, and then plays with the hot head of Dimitri’s cock, rubbing his thumb over the frenulum, threatening the dip of a nail at his slit, and oh, Dimitri takes it- trembles and hitches breaths around Byleth’s fingers, gags with tears welling in his eye, and his cock spills a few drops of precome over Sylvain’s hand. 

Precome that Sylvain drags down over the hard shaft of his cock, over the heavy softness of his balls held tight to his body by silk and lace. There, beneath more silk, the entrance to Dimitri’s body, and he moans when Sylvain presses the cloth against his twitching hole.

“And what’s down here, hm? Come on, don’t be shy; pretty thing like you must have a sweet ass.”

Dimitri’s eye slams shut. The blush staining his cheeks and chest intensifies, and somehow the delicate white lingerie looks filthy against his flushed skin. Slowly, so small Sylvain almost misses it, he shakes his head.

“No?” Sylvain circles his finger over the tight furl of skin, dragging silk against him. “Is it your-” he almost pauses, but Byleth’s nod urges him on, “-oh, darling, is this your lovely pussy?”

Dimitri swallows. 

“No,” he manages about Byleth’s fingers, and Byleth and Sylvain share a look, matching dark hunger.

“Ah, I see,” Byleth says, and the sudden certainty in her voice has Dimitri shuddering, his lashes gilded with threatening tears. “Is it your-”

Sylvain can hardly breathe. The sound of the unspoken word on her lips, the idea that Dimitri might want them to call it that - it burns beneath his skin, then eclipses itself in another hot rush as Dimitri says, tears on his scarlet cheek, voice thick with aching need,

“It’s my cunt.”

"Your _cunt_ ," Sylvain says, low, the words filthy and dark on his tongue, and another shock of heat races through him as Dimitri's hole clutches at his fingertip through the silk.

Byleth, bent over Dimitri's head in her lap like a dragon over its hoard, draws her spit-slick fingers from his mouth to paint wet trails across his lips, thumb at the tears on his hot cheek. "Is your cunt as sweet as your mouth?" she murmurs, and Dimitri's whole body trembles, thighs clenching tight about Sylvain's wrist.

His sobs, wet, thick, trembling with some sort of sheer relief, shake through him, and he kisses Byleth’s fingertips desperately when they slip across his mouth.

"I wonder if it's as pretty and pink as your little cock?" Sylvain says, idle, rubbing, pressing.

Dimitri's cock isn't little by any stretch, but Dimitri gasps, hips bucking, and Byleth picks up Sylvain's words with ease. Her free hand darts behind her back while she says, "Look how needy you are. All wet and shivering, just begging-" she rolls the corked vial of oil down the bed towards Sylvain, then lays Dimitri's head down on the pillows, pushing herself down to lie alongside him and cup his trembling jaw in one gloved hand, forcing him to look at her, "-for a touch."

"Please," Dimitri breathes, naked need in his voice, his eye, and Byleth leans in until their noses almost brush. 

"Please, what?" Steel in her voice, and Sylvain, uncorking the vial with his teeth to slick up his fingers, almost fumbles it entirely. Goddess, her command - even now it calls to him.

"Please," Dimitri says again, as if lost, and Byleth's sudden faint frown cues Sylvain to jump in.

"Please touch your tits? Your hot little cock? Please give you something in that open mouth of yours? What do you need, darling?" He curls his fingers beneath the lace waistband of Dimitri's panties, clicking his tongue as the silk slides wet beneath his fingertips. "Our sweet thing's made a mess of his panties," he says as he peels them off Dimitri's cock, tucks it down beneath his balls. 

"Sorry," Dimitri gasps, and Byleth gentles him with a fist in his hair, another long, slow kiss. She pulls back, studies his face - dazed eyes, swollen mouth parted - and says,

"No apologies. We want you to need, and to give you what you need." She taps her fingers at his throat, plays with the white velvet ribbon marking him theirs. "Again. What do you want?"

Dimitri hitches a breath as Sylvain trails curious fingers across his balls: pink and tight and downed with pale blond hair, heavy in the cup of his palm and fragile as he rolls them between his fingers, testing.

"Pretty even here," Sylvain says, and the sound of his voice must startle Dimitri back to reality, for he blurts,

"Please- please touch my tits," and even though he hesitates on the last word, he manages it. Then he tries to turn his head into his shoulder, hide his scarlet face, but Byleth catches him by wrist and jaw, holds him firm.

"Of course I will, pretty thing."

Sylvain, sliding his slick fingers down, adds on in a flash of inspiration, "Arms above your head, show us those tits you need touched so badly."

Dimitri obeys, stretching his arms up. The pose forces him to arch his back, pushing his chest into the air, fabric straining to cover the broad expanse, and his nipples, pink and pebbled, press against the white lace.

Sylvain presses the pad of his finger over Dimitri's hole. He can't really see it from this angle, but the hot muscle grabs sweetly at his fingertip, and another wave of tenderness and greed rolls through him. He crooks, presses, and Dimitri bucks, cock twitching on his belly, a noise caught in his throat.

"You're so tense, lovely," he says, and Byleth, her hand on Dimitri's jaw holding him still to be kissed, pulls away with a considering sound. 

The hand at Dimitri's throat skirts down, calluses dragging over the lace, and the air is silent, charged. Dimitri's not even breathing. 

Byleth's gaze is utterly focused, her expression intent and devouring, as her fingers push down over the lace bra, the straps digging into Dimitri's broad shoulders.

The tension strings Dimitri tight, the muscles of his thighs and ass quivering where he's sprawled over Sylvain's lap. At last, Dimitri's breath explodes from him as Byleth's fingers reach his nipple, rubbing the lace over his tender flesh in slow deliberate motions. His cock jumps again, more beads of clear precome welling at the vulnerable little slit to dampen the trail of blond hair below his navel.

"Oh, that's good," Sylvain breathes. "He tightened up on my finger a little bit, I think he likes it."

Dimitri, scarlet, his breath more shaky than steady, makes a protesting little noise.

"No?" Sylvain rubs again, grinning at the helpless surge of Dimitri's body against his hands. "But you're so _wet_ , darling." He slicks more oil over Dimitri's twitching rim, and Dimitri squeezes his eye shut.

"Come here," Byleth says, and slides her hand back from Dimitri's jaw into his hair, urging him forward into a kiss. She kisses like it's a battlefield, conquering and thorough, nips at his lips, strokes Dimitri's hair, and above them, sprawled on the pillows, Dimitri's crossed wrists tremble. He's a line of quivering tension, his thighs clenching about Sylvain's waist, his hole clutching at his fingers, innumerable little whimpers and groans tripping from his lips to be captured by Byleth's seeking mouth. 

Byleth pulls away with Dimitri's lower lip between her teeth, lets it go, and Dimitri's breath falls shaken. "Look at me," she demands, and his gaze is black, teary, misted over with need. "I want to see your face when he fills your sweet little cunt."

Sylvain's hips buck at the vicious greed in her voice, the helpless tiny sound Dimitri makes, and Goddess, he wants, he _wants_ -

"Hold him steady," he warns, stroking the warm trembling inside of Dimitri's thigh. He hooks a finger over the lacey hem, snaps it just for the joy of Dimitri's hitched breath. "He's a skittish little thing, and I'm not missing out on the chance to take him."

Byleth nods. Her grip tightens, leather gloves creaking, tugging at Dimitri's hair, and he inhales, sharp and sudden. So vulnerable like this, desperate for touch and affection, trusting them to give it to him.

Dimitri's chest heaves, his body curling into Byleth's hand on his tit, Sylvain's hand gripping his thigh, pushing it back so he can get a better view. 

"Your cunt's so pink," Sylvain croons as he finally gets a glimpse. Trembling, flinching at the dip of Sylvain's finger within, shining with oil - he'd lick Dimitri open, hold him still under the sheer weight of pleasure. "You ever have your cunt licked, sweet thing?" Before Dimitri can answer, he sinks his finger into Dimitri's hot velvet grip and swears.

"Fuck, Byleth, he's so tight, you sure he's no virgin?"

Dimitri whimpers and Byleth shushes him, her hand slipping up from his nipple to cradle his jaw. "I'm sure. He's a virgin to another man's cock, but everything else, he's done." Her expression is rapt, mixed darkness and tenderness, and she leans forward to kiss the whimpers from Dimitri's lips. One black-clad thumb swipes at the tears beneath his eye. "You're doing so well, being so good, our sweet thing. Our precious pet."

The praise relaxes Dimitri enough for Sylvain to get another finger in, and his rim strains white about Sylvain's knuckles, going even paler when Sylvain spreads his fingers enough to pour some oil between them. The oil wells back out, slicks Dimitri's perineum, rolls down in golden droplets towards the silk panties trapped behind his balls.

"I wish you could see, Dimitri," Sylvain says, twisting his fingers, then pulling them out until just the tips rest inside that clenching warmth, "how beautiful you look down here, how open to us. Helpless and wet and defenseless-" he thrusts back in, grinning at Dimitri's shocked cry, mouth falling open, his cry mingling with the obscene wet noise of Sylvain's fingers pressing into him. Oil slips back out, gold mingling with and matting the golden hair on Dimitri's perineum.

Sylvain turns his hand palm-up, crooks his fingers, and eases his hand back, searching.

Dimitri moans, curling into the steady pressure of Sylvain's fingers, and Sylvain grins. "Found it." He presses and Dimitri whines, hips working back against Sylvain's hand, the long muscle of his upraised thigh trembling in Sylvain's grip. His cock trembles, and the droplets that shine at his slit have a white hue. 

Byleth notices, because of course she does. She lets go of Dimitri's hair, his jaw, and pushes herself down his body, slinging one muscular thigh over the one of Dimitri's still on the bed.

Dimitri starts to lift himself up to follow her, and she sends him back down with a sharp glance and a, "Be good." Ah, okay, Sylvain gets what she's going for now; she ends up with her mouth above one of Dimitri's tits, one gloved hand just hovering above his straining cock.

"Please, _please_." Dimitri is wild with need, his eye tear-bright, his face near-crimson, lips swollen and kiss-bruised, and yet he keeps his arms above his head even as they tremble with the urge to fall. His pulse beats hot beneath the white collar. Beautiful, trapped in lace and silk and satin, made helpless by their word and his own desires.

"Suck," Byleth says, and presses her other hand back to Dimitri's mouth. He takes her fingers with a grateful sound, sucks them into his plush mouth. His eye flutters shut. His cheeks hollow.

Byleth glances at Sylvain, who nods, and then curls her hand about Dimitri's dripping cock. He shudders, twisting, and it brings his nipple into range of her mouth. She seals her mouth over his bra, the nipple underneath, and the muscle of her jaw flexes with her bite.

Sylvain can't even describe the sound Dimitri makes: a wail, maybe, but muffled by the press of Byleth's fingers into his throat, trapping his tongue. Spit wells between her fingers, glosses the leather of her glove, starts to smear his lips as he pants, utterly abandoned. He's all tremble, his body drawing tight about Sylvain's knuckles, the muscles of his thigh pressing hot and rigid against Sylvain's hand, his hips rocking into Byleth's milking grip as she pulls and Sylvain presses, steadily urging him higher.

Byleth growls about her mouthful of flesh, her fingers circling tight just below the head of Dimitri's cock, her thumb rubbing harshly at his slit, and that does it.

Dimitri crashes into climax on a sob, his face screwed up in blissful agony. He arches, held down only by Byleth's thigh and his own obedience, and shudders through a gasping orgasm. His cock jerks in Byleth's hand, spilling come over her gloves and his heaving belly. The contractions roll like waves over Sylvain's fingers buried inside him.

He collapses back to the bed, limp, a sprawl of limbs and lace, and gasps for breath.

They give him no quarter. Sylvain yanks his fingers from Dimitri's hole, ravenous at the wet pink flash of him behind his flushed and swollen rim, and fumbles his cock out, stroking the remaining oil over himself. He burns with the need to fuck, to spread Dimitri wide on his cock, mark him with his come. His blood roars in his ears, 

Dimitri gasps about Byleth's fingers, the sound thick, sloppy, then manages a helpless little noise as Byleth pulls off her mouthful and gazes at him with black-eyed lust. The white lace of his bra is sodden, translucent with her spit, and the white marks of her teeth on his tit are filling in with violent red, a hue nearly as bright as where his stiff nipples press against the lace.

"You looked so virginal," Sylvain pants, fingers digging tight against Dimitri's thigh, and Dimitri, dazed, gaze tear-bright, whines. "And now look at you, suckling at her fingers, your tits sloppy with her spit, that delicate little waist cincher marred by your come."

Before Dimitri can answer, he shifts his hips forward, smacks the head of his cock against Dimitri's fluttering hole. The sound is wet, utterly obscene, and Dimitri flinches, then melts, managing a garbled "Please" about Byleth's fingers.

"Oh, don't worry." Sylvain rocks his hips, tormenting Dimitri's clutching hole with the threat of pushing in, and grins bright and fierce when Dimitri whines. "We'll give your hungry little cunt just what it needs."Byleth pulls her fingers from Dimitri's mouth and holds him steady with firm hands, so Sylvain can watch every subtle shift of his expression as he finally sinks in.

Dimitri's brow furrows, pinches as if in pain, but his jaw drops on a luxuriant moan as Sylvain works himself deeper into his accepting body. Tears bead anew at his waterline, roll onto his hot cheek. He holds Sylvain's gaze, trusting, abandoned to his need, and Goddess, fuck, he's tight, wet, hot silk sliding deliciously smooth over Sylvain's cock, clutching-

"Oh, oh, oh," Dimitri whimpers, hips hitching downward onto Sylvain's cock, his thigh trembling beneath Sylvain's fingers. His hole, when Sylvain glances downward, spreads white and slick around Sylvain's shaft, pulling him in, milking at him like a cunt, and then it's Sylvain's turn to gasp and shudder as his balls settle against Dimitri's rear.

"Hold," Byleth demands, tugging at her trousers. Her gloves, wet with Dimitri's spit, slide on her buttons, and she barks a curse before she manages to spread the fly. Green curls poke forward. "Dimitri, hand." 

Pleasure-drunk, he drags his hand down the bed for her to push between her thighs, inside her trousers. "Show me what your pretty fingers can do," she murmurs, and then pulls him into another biting kiss, her fingers working at his nipple again.

Sylvain, trembling, every muscle and thought consumed with the urge to take and _fuck_ , moves.

It's a fever, this ache, this greed that inspires him to watch how Dimitri's hole struggles to keep him in, to memorize the grateful little wrecked noises Byleth allows him to gasp out between kisses. He feels as animal as he ever has, every bit of him focused on Dimitri, on his pleasure, on his body: the shine of his sweat, the timbre of his cries, his writhing and bucking and the endless chase for more.

The room fills with their obscene music: kisses, the slick noise of Dimitri's fingers working Byleth's cunt, the drumbeat of Sylvain's cock driving back into Dimitri's waiting hole. Dimitri's moans, Byleth's hitching little gasps as she snatches Dimitri's wrist and holds him still for her to rub herself off against, her mouth red and teeth-marked, Sylvain's grunts, his sweat dripping from his forehead to spatter onto Dimitri's come -

The tension coils, tight, tighter, burning in Sylvain's breaths, behind his eyes-

He shoves himself forward, Dimitri's thigh back until he's almost crouched over him, driving in, frantic to get deeper, and then groans, low and long. His come spills inside Dimitri, his cock jerking, pushing it deeper, and it's momentary insanity that makes him turn and press a long sucking kiss to the fragile inside of Dimitri's knee where it rests on his shoulder.

"Sylvain," Dimitri breathes. His eye shines bright, adoring, as he glances between Sylvain and Byleth where she hunches over him, hips shuddering out their last pulses on his fingers. "Beloved."

"Dimitri," Byleth says, low, and brushes his sweat-damp hair from his eyes, traces the round of his mouth when he gasps as Sylvain pulls out. A long strand of come trails after him, and Dimitri's hole, red, slick with oil and come, gapes, winks as he struggles to close.The image burns itself into Sylvain's mind - possession, completion, something filthy and gorgeous at once - and he finds himself taking a shuddering breath, unaccountably moved.

"Oh, Dimitri," Sylvain sighs, voice hoarse, and thumbs his come back inside that hot vice. The final ripples of Dimitri's climax wash over him. "So beautiful."

Dimitri, chest heaving, fresh come painting his cincher, the scant space of skin between leather and lace, smiles, beatific, and closes his eye. Worn out, worn through, cherished and adored even so.

Fortunate, as they all are, to be here.

Fortunate to be so loved, and to love.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments, kudos, bookmarks, and criticism are adored. I reply to all comments, though it may take me a bit. Check out my social media info at brightlyburning.carrd.co if you'd like, or talk to me on Twitter at @carthageburning.


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